The Waterbending Master
by madderreds
Summary: After Aang's death, Katara is asked to instruct the new Avatar in the art of Southern Water Bending. Still grieving over Aang, Katara refuses; yet in the end, the Avatar is brought to Katara, and the cycle begins anew. Canon pairings, K (for now), Katara's POV.


They come, huddled into their furs and shivering with the cold. The Order of the White Lotus rarely comes down into the frozen tundra of the Southern Water Tribe—unless they have a very good reason to do so. I know why, of course, but play along with their charade, making amiable small talk with the members and pretending innocence to their plans.

The Avatar—my Avatar—is gone.

A new one will take his place.

And whomever it may be, they will need a waterbending teacher.

Finally, they find the courage to ask me what they have traveled so far to ask. I say nothing as they stammer over their words, until one can spit out, "We need you, Master Katara." He gulps, hands trembling, but continues on. "Will you instruct the new Avatar in the art of waterbending?"

"No," I say, and watch their faces fall.

* * *

The Avatar is brought to me soon after she is discovered. Unlike the men escorting her, she stands tall, unyielding to the cold and wind. I smile. She is of my tribe, after all, and we are known for our resilience, if nothing else. I dismiss the men with a curt nod, and turn my attention to my would-be student. She meets me stare for blue-eyed stare, hands on her hips, her back straight.

"I'm the Avatar," she finally says.

"You are," I reply, shrugging my shoulders. "The second one I have taught," I add, unable to squelch the flame of pride in my chest.

The new Avatar seems unimpressed. The legacy of Aang—my Aang—doesn't matter much to a girl of six. _No matter_, I think to myself. _She will learn. _

* * *

Her bending is impressive. Her form is literally nonexistent, and her movements lack the grace and smoothness of Southern waterbending, but the raw talent is all there. I watch silently as she bends around the arena, not correcting her stance or forms—not yet. The memory is fuzzy with age, but I still remember another Avatar practicing his waterbending in front of me, anxiously glancing at me for praise and acknowledgement. My heart lurches in my chest.

"That's enough," I call out, and the new Avatar stops mid-bend and practically flies to stand in front of me. Her eyes are shining with exhilaration and pride, her little chest puffed out with the force of it. She looks at me expectantly, waiting the words of praise she has always heard.

"Your bending needs a lot of work." She blinks.

"Your form is nonexistent, your stance is incorrect, and you need to work the fluidity of your motions," I say, counting on my fingers. In front of me, the new Avatar deflates, her pride and good mood destroyed by my criticisms. She doesn't burst into tears, as I would expect of a girl of six to do. Instead, her stance becomes more erect, if possible, and her lips press into a thin line of determination.

"I'll fix it," she says with all the stubbornness of a child.

"I know you will," I reply.

They don't call me a Master Waterbender for nothing, after all.

* * *

The Avatar and I fall into an easy schedule. She is eager to learn, and the years have not diminished my teaching ability or my technique.

The mornings are devoted to stance and form. She stands in the center of the field, going through her forms as I circle and call out corrections, occasionally pausing her routine to manually adjust the bend of her knee or the swing of her wrist. After only a few weeks she flies through the forms easily, the water leaping to obey her commands. Despite myself, I'm impressed. Even Aang, talented a bender as he was, hadn't taken to waterbending so quickly.

The thought makes my throat constrict.

Our afternoons focus on meditation. When the weather is manageable, we meditate on the tundra, surrounded by our element. Other times we simply meditate in my home, in front of the fire. Although the Avatar is certainly a bending prodigy, her meditation is shallow at best—feigned at worst. She lacks the spiritual side that Aang had, and while I know it is essential to her training as the Avatar, I am grateful for the distinct differences between the new Avatar and my Avatar.

The line between them already blurs too much.

Evenings aren't nearly as structured as the rest of the day. Sometimes we spar until both of us are breathing hard, hands on our knees. I live for these matches; even though she's just a little kid, the new Avatar can certainly put me through my paces. Even though I love peace and will never, _ever_ wish for war, I miss the thrill of a fight.

She's nowhere close to beating me yet—but one day, I'm sure that she will.

* * *

One day, during our meditation, the new Avatar turns to me. "Sifu Katara," she says.

"Yes, Avatar?"

"Call me Korra."

* * *

I don't have many rules for the Avatar.

In fact, there is only one.

_Don't get attached. _

I've already lost Avatar, and I will not lose another.

I do not call the Avatar 'Korra.'

* * *

The Order of the White Lotus checks in often. I can barely contain my distaste for them, now. They are no longer the brave men that I fought alongside in the Hundred Year War—Master Pakku, Iroh, and Bumi—they are young men sheltered by peace times and prosperity. The Avatar, they believe, needs to be sheltered from the world until she can become a fully-realized Avatar and master the four elements. We argue until I'm blue in the face—I can never, _will_ never believe that the Avatar should be sheltered from the world that they protect.

Aang traveled the world from the time he was twelve, and we—Sokka, Toph, and I—never sheltered him from any part of it. I _know_ that he would never approve of the Avatar being sealed in a compound away from the world. The Avatar must be a part of the world. There is no way around it.

As the former Avatar's wife, and a member of the team that brought down Ozai, they listen to me and follow my advice. For now.

* * *

When they first approached me to instruct the new Avatar in waterbending, I refused. The loss of Aang was still fresh, and the thought of teaching another Avatar like I had taught Aang was nearly unbearable. I didn't regret the decision. I suggested Kya, my daughter, instead. I'd taught her everything that I knew.

They didn't ask again until they'd discovered the Avatar in a village not too far from my own.

They'd filed into my little home, their faces haggard and somber with cold and stress. Like before, we'd chatted about their travels and their search for the new Avatar. And like before, I'd feigned ignorance as to why they had come. I wasn't going to make things easy on them—if they wanted my help so badly, they could work for it. One blurted it out during a strained silent pause: "Master Katara, we've found the Avatar! And we want you to train her!" The young man gulped and tugged at his collar, clearly fearing my response. My temper, it seems, is still well-known across the Nations.

My first instinct was to shoot them down, to take them to task for disregarding my first—and only—answer. I opened my mouth, but before I could say a word, guilt washed over me.

Aang would've wanted me to do it. I could practically hear him beside me, "you're a great teacher, Katara." _But she won't be you! _I wanted to scream, _it won't feel right!_ But he was right. And I have never been able to turn my back on those who need me.

* * *

The Avatar, on one of her walks outsides, brings home a polar bear dog. She calls it Naga.

It's a scrawny little thing, a couple months old at most—"it didn't have a mommy, Sifu Katara!" I sigh, knowing that I'm beaten. I'm a sucker for babies.

Naga stays.

I know that somewhere Aang and Appa are pleased.

* * *

Bumi comes to visit. I'm overjoyed to see my eldest son—his duties in the army keep him busy all year, and he only rarely ventures home to visit. He and the Avatar are fast friends, both of them bouncing off the walls, Naga the polar bear dog barking and chasing after them both. I pretend to be angry, but I'm secretly pleased: my house has been empty for far too long.

I make traditional Southern Water Tribe meals for dinner: seaweed noodles, sea prunes, and tiger-seal stew. My son and my student eat voraciously; I've barely eaten a bite before they've gone onto second helpings. Bumi meets my eye across the table and gives me an exaggerated wink before shoveling six sea prunes into his mouth. The Avatar, clearly in awe of someone whose eating abilities match her own, immediately does the same. Naga sits at the Avatar's feet, waiting for scraps; when no one's looking, I slip her some bits of tiger-seal under the table.

After dinner, my son and I venture out into the open tundra around the village, the Avatar and Naga bolting ahead of us. He offers me his arm, and I take it, beaming. We talk seriously of the trials of Republic City, of the relations between the Nations, and playfully of my youngest son, Tenzin, and his growing family.

"And where is _your_ growing family, eh, son?" I raise my eyebrows suggestively. Bumi chokes out a bellow of a laugh, clutching his stomach. His laughter hits me like a fist to the heart—he laughs the same way his uncle, Sokka, did. Tears fill my eyes, my vision starting to waver.

_I miss Sokka._

_I miss my children._

_I miss Aang._

My knees go out from beneath me, and on instinct, the frozen water rises up to meet me, catching me before I hit the ground. Bumi grabs my elbow, his reflexes quick from his training, although the newly-formed ice block has already halted my fall. His tight grip turns into a gentle caress as he rubs my arm and lets the tears run down my cheeks. Neither of us say a work, until I can quietly mumble, "I miss your father."

"I do, too," he says. He wraps an arm around my shoulder. I lean into his shoulder; my forehead barely brushes the shoulder-pad of his uniform—he's been taller than me since he was twelve years old, taller than Aang since he was fourteen. His hand rubs circles around my back, the same way I did when any of my children were sick. We watch as the Avatar flings ice discs for Naga to catch. She is screaming with laughter, Naga barking along with her; Bumi and I can hear it from where we sit.

"I'm glad that Korra is here with you," Bumi says finally. "You shouldn't be all by yourself."

I nod.

"I'm glad that she's here, too," I admit. It's not a lie. Days that were once colorless and drab after Aang passed are now hectic and colorful, filled to the brim with the exuberant personality of a six year old girl.

We sit and watch the Avatar and Naga play until they exhaust themselves, practically falling asleep on the ice. Bumi gives a sharp whistle, and, like the puppies that they are, they come running, tripping over each other in their haste.

"What?" the Avatar demands, panting, her hands on her hips. Naga simply sits by her master and waits.

I smile. "It's time to go in, Korra," I say, motioning back to the village, where fires are already being set against the dark and cold. The Avatar shrugs indifferently and starts off toward the village, Naga at her heels. She stops suddenly, and turns back to Bumi and I, stretching our legs after sitting on the ice for so long.

She stares at me, her eyes incredulous as a slow smile forms on her face.

"What?"

"You called me Korra," she says simply, and beams at me.


End file.
